by Marti Green
In May 1990, the charred remains of a child were found half-buried in the woods near a gas station a few miles off an isolated stretch of Route 80 between Orland and Howe, Indiana. Through study of the skeleton, the county’s forensic anthropologist determined that the child had been a three- or four-year-old Caucasian female. Her fingers and feet had been burned too badly to check databases for matches. Walter Jankiewicz, the gas station owner, recalled seeing a run-down American car, maybe a Chevy, at least six or seven years old, black or dark blue, pull off the road one day several weeks earlier, after the sun had set but before darkness had fully settled. He watched as a medium-built man emerged from the car and struggled with the large package in his arms as he headed into the forest. Twenty minutes later, a truck pulled into the gas station, and after the station owner finished filling the tank, the car parked along the road was gone.
Inevitably, a dead Caucasian girl burned beyond recognition created fodder for the media. But after weeks of constant attention, with talking heads speculating ad nauseam about the identity of the victim and the circumstances of her death, the news coverage finally petered out. Two years later, America’s Most Wanted ran a program around the story and, as always, ended the show with a call for help from viewers. A week later they had received dozens of calls. One of them led to George Calhoun.
“Hey, gorgeous. I hear you want me.”
Dani looked up from the computer and saw a grinning Tommy Noorland standing in her doorway. She used to bristle when a male colleague referred to her looks. She thought it a backhanded way of being sexist—you know, a woman mattered only if she were attractive. And if she were, there was no reason to see past that. She’d wanted to matter because she was smart and worked hard, not because she happened to be pretty. As she’d gotten older, she’d mellowed. Now she could appreciate that men like Tommy were natural flirts and that his banter was not demeaning. She knew he respected the hell out of her, so she just smiled and answered, “In your dreams, Tommy.”
“Ah, baby, you don’t know what you’re missing,” he said and gave her a wink.
This was Tommy’s standard repartee, not just with Dani but with every female in the office. “Did Bruce fill you in on the Calhoun case?” she asked as Tommy settled his large frame into a chair.
“Nope. Just said you had something for me.”
Dani told Tommy what she knew about the case. “We’re going to have to move fast on this one. Probably early next week, we’ll fly out to meet him and then stay on to do interviews. In the meantime, I’d like you to start pulling old news reports about the case. Do you have any buddies that landed in Indiana?”
As a former FBI agent, Tommy knew other retired “Fibbies” all over the country. After leaving the government, many took private jobs that kept them in contact with local authorities, and they were a valuable source of information. “I can’t think of anyone offhand, but I’ll check around.”
After he left, Dani turned back to the information on her screen. One of the callers in response to the television show told police that the four-year-old daughter of her neighbors, George and Sallie Calhoun, had mysteriously disappeared two years earlier. Sylvia Grant had occasionally baby-sat Angelina Calhoun. Although George worked days at a local garage and Sallie, nights at a diner, whenever an extra shift became available, Sallie took it. On those days, Sylvia watched their little girl. One day, after Sylvia had stopped seeing Angelina play in front of her small bungalow-style house, she asked Sallie where she was.
“She’s gone,” Sallie had said.
“Gone where?” Sylvia asked.
“Just gone.”
Sallie never explained what had happened. When Sylvia asked if Angelina had died, Sallie turned and walked away. Sylvia never saw the little girl again. “It just seemed strange to me,” she’d told the program director. “And you know, it was about the same time as that little girl’s body was found. I suppose it’s nothing, but I thought you should know about it.”
All the leads were passed on to the FBI. The body had been found in Indiana, and the caller lived in Sharpsburg, Pennsylvania, just outside Pittsburgh, so her tip didn’t receive priority treatment. Several months later, they got around to questioning her. Sylvia pointed out the bungalow where George and Sallie still lived, and the feds went next door to question them. They’d arrived at eleven o’clock in the morning; George was at work and Sallie was home alone. The two men told Sallie they were investigating the murder of the young girl found in Indiana two years earlier. When they asked her about her daughter, she looked blankly at them at first and then answered, “That was my baby you found in Indiana. We killed her.”
Those words sent George Calhoun to death row and committed Sallie to life in prison. She pled guilty, but George insisted his wife was crazy, and he went to trial. The prosecution offered no forensic evidence to establish that the burned corpse was Angelina Calhoun. After all, there had been no reason to conduct any test to establish parentage: They had a confession from a woman who offered no other explanation for her daughter’s absence. George testified at his trial and denied killing his daughter but refused to answer questions about her whereabouts. He simply stared silently at the floor.
Dani looked away from the computer. Of course the jurors found George guilty. How could they have done otherwise? Yet so many years later, he still insisted the dead child hadn’t been his daughter. If so, what had happened to Angelina? How could a four-year-old child simply vanish? With lethal injection only a few weeks away, Dani wondered if George Calhoun was finally ready to provide the answer.
After delivery of the afternoon mail, a new stack of folders was placed in Dani’s in-box. More letters from inmates were inside, waiting for an attorney’s review. Yes or no. Hope or despair. A chance at freedom or continued incarceration. Their answers lay in her hands. Dani hated this part of the job most, sitting in judgment on a person’s plea for help. She tried to perform the job objectively, devoid of emotion but focused on the facts, only the facts. The facts of Calhoun’s case told her to pass. His wife identified the child as their daughter. Her inquiry should stop right there. Yet it hadn’t. His story had triggered an emotional response and she wanted to learn more.
A knock at Dani’s door broke her concentration. “Am I interrupting?”
Melanie Quinn stood in the doorway. “Nope. C’mon in.”
“Bruce said you have something for me.” Melanie sat down and Dani filled her in on their next project. At twenty-seven, Melanie still carried within her the passion of youth and the certainty of her convictions. Dani hoped that didn’t change too quickly but knew it would—it must. Doubt was a necessary element of life, one often not appreciated until later in life. Only with doubt could one challenge her assumptions and ensure that her course was proper.
Dani handed Melanie the printout of People v. George Calhoun. “We’re considering taking his case and time is short. Less than six weeks until his scheduled execution. I’m going to head it up, and I’ve asked for you and Tommy on my team.”
Melanie shook her head. “Just six weeks? We’ve never turned around a conviction that quickly. Is it even possible?”
“Well, it’s not impossible. But no question it’ll be difficult.”
“What do you want me to do first?”
“Research everything you can about the case on Lexis/Nexis. I’ve overnighted a retainer letter to George, and when it’s returned, we’ll fly out there, probably at the beginning of next week. Is your schedule clear for this?”
“I…I can clear it. Nothing pressing right now.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
The hint of a smile passed across Melanie’s face and abruptly disappeared as she resumed her professional pose. “It’s nothing. Next Tuesday is my one-year anniversary of dating Brad and we were going to celebrate at Per Se. It took forever to get reservations, but Brad will understand. I’m sur
e he will.”
Dani thought back on her courtship with Doug. The one-year anniversary of their first date had been a momentous occasion. It signified that they were a couple, not just a passing fling. Despite Melanie’s casual dismissal of her celebration plans, Dani appreciated how disappointed she was. “Okay. Read up on this case, see what you can find, and report back to me tomorrow.”
As Melanie left, Dani wondered whether Brad appreciated what a jewel she was. Certainly, her beauty must have dazzled him. Melanie was stunning. Her thick, shoulder-length, strawberry-blond locks framed a perfectly oval face with thickly lashed eyes the color of an arctic glacier. Her body curved in all the right places, without an extraneous ounce of fat. She was more than her appearance, though. An assistant editor of the Yale Law Review, she’d graduated at the top of her class at the age of twenty-two, having skipped two years of school. She could do anything, including clerking for a Supreme Court justice, but she had a fire burning within her that compelled her to right wrongs. Dani felt lucky to have her as part of her team.
CHAPTER
3
Driving to her home in Bronxville, a Westchester suburb a commuter’s distance from HIPP’s office, Dani’s thoughts lingered on George Calhoun. As usual, cars inched north on the FDR Drive in spurts of ten to twenty miles per hour. What should have been a thirty-minute drive home usually took an hour or more. When it snowed, it could take close to two hours. Dani supposed she could take the railroad into the city and then take the subway, but she liked having her car with her in case a problem arose with Jonah and she needed to get home right away.
Before Jonah was born, she and Doug had lived in Brooklyn Heights, in a one-bedroom walk-up on the second floor. It was less expensive than Manhattan and an easy subway ride from the city. She loved living there. At night she and Doug would stroll over to the Promenade and gaze at the Manhattan skyline, the twin towers of the World Trade Center like two fists proclaiming the superiority of the city. She’d moved away before 9/11. After Jonah was born, they’d needed more room and bought a fixer-upper in Bronxville.
Dani passed the United Nations and saw a steady stream of traffic ahead. She slowly wound her way past the Queensboro Bridge, still graceful despite its advancing age, gradually picked up a little speed as she approached the Triboro Bridge, and had a reasonably smooth ride the rest of the trip home. She tuned the radio to a classic rock station. The pounding beats of Bon Jovi in the background didn’t stop her from mulling over George’s case. Inmates, guilty or not, regularly claimed innocence. It seemed strange, though, that he kept insisting the victim wasn’t his daughter. Was he delusional? Had he killed his daughter, thinking she was someone else? Or was his wife delusional, imagining that George had killed Angelina?
She turned into her driveway a little after four o’clock—not bad time, considering the traffic, and early enough to greet Jonah when his school bus pulled up at 4:15. Katie, their housekeeper, was always on hand in case Dani lost the battle with the roads. Katie came in every day at three o’clock, tidied up the house, made dinner for the family, and left at seven. That way Dani knew someone would always be home for Jonah. Even though he was twelve, he needed help.
Jonah had Williams syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that caused mild retardation. But it also gave him the sweetest disposition. Most days a smile graced his face and he was friendly to everyone. Too friendly for today’s world, but it was hard wired.
“Hi, Katie,” Dani called out as she walked in. “Everything okay?”
“I’m in here,” a voice called from the direction of the kitchen.
Before Dani entered the cozy room with its 1940s vintage Wedgwood stove, she recognized the unmistakable fragrance of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven. “Mmm, smells yummy. Almost ready?”
“Not for you, they aren’t,” Katie answered with a smile. She knew Dani had been trying to drop ten pounds and acted as her conscience. Dani wished she could take Katie to work with her. The younger people in the office could eat all day and not gain an ounce. They sat at their desks, downing Krispy Kreme doughnuts with their morning coffee and peanut M&Ms for an afternoon pick-me-up, and Dani couldn’t resist when they’d offer their extras. So the ten pounds had been an uphill battle.
“You’re a sadist, Katie McIntyre.”
“True enough, but at least I’m a saint with Jonah.”
Dani couldn’t argue with that. After returning to work, she had gone through two housekeepers before finding Katie. The first two were disasters, putting her in a state of constant anxiety each morning as she left home knowing she had entrusted Jonah to their care.
Dani and Katie turned their heads turned their heads at the sound of the school bus pulling into the driveway. Dani opened the door for Jonah, and he bounded up the few steps in front of their home and rushed into her arms.
“I had a serendipity day at school today, Mommy.”
That was another thing about Williams syndrome kids. Despite their low IQs, they tended to have extensive vocabularies, although their choice of words often just missed the mark.
“What’s that palatable aroma? Are there cookies in the oven?”
Katie stuck her head into the foyer and nodded. “You bet. I made them just for you.”
As Jonah sat at the kitchen table with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk in front of him, Dani headed upstairs to the home office she shared with Doug. On one of the walls adjacent to the door were two desks, each with a computer sitting on top: his and hers. A bulletin board filled with snapshots of her family hung on the wall over her desk. She settled into her deeply cushioned chair and redirected her thoughts from warm, freshly baked cookies to George Calhoun. Vicious murderer or innocent victim? She had taken his case to find out the truth and prayed he was the latter. If he didn’t convince her, she would drop the case. Her rule was hard and fast: She didn’t represent child murderers, even if they hadn’t received a fair trial.
“Mommy, I feel discombobulated.”
Dani opened her eyes and saw Jonah standing over her. His cheeks were flushed and his dark brown eyes looked like pools of muddy water. She turned toward her alarm clock, and the bright red digits read 6:10, almost an hour earlier than her usual wake-up time. Doug slept soundly next to her, the covers of their down quilt pulled up to his chin to guard against the chill from the open window. Dani preferred a cool room to sleep in; Doug liked it toasty. So the window stayed open, but they’d splurged on the warmest down quilt they could find.
As she sat up, Dani tugged at Jonah’s arm to sit him next to her on the bed. She put the back of her hand against his forehead, and it felt warm and sweaty. Definitely a fever. Williams syndrome children were prone to an abundance of medical problems, and Dani strived to resist the immediate panic response to every illness. By and large, she had done well over the years, but behind her calm response a surge of terror often arose, and she needed to remind herself it was probably irrational. At least, she always told herself her fears were absurd as she pushed that sense of dread into the background.
“Come, Jonah, let’s go back into your bedroom,” she whispered to him. Dani put her arm around his shoulder and led him down the hallway. His bedroom looked like any other twelve-year-old boy’s, with posters of baseball heroes and rock stars adorning the walls, clothes hanging over the back of a chair, and stacks of textbooks on his desk. She settled him back into his bed and traipsed to the bathroom for a dose of children’s Tylenol and then to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice to wash it down.
With Jonah medicated, she made herself comfortable on the plush carpeted floor in his room, to keep him company. “Try to go back to sleep, sweetie,” she said as her own eyes drifted closed.
Deep within the recesses of her head, Dani heard the faint buzzing of an alarm clock down the hall. Her eyes shot open and she realized she had fallen asleep. She looked at Jonah and saw that he too had fallen back
asleep. A soft guttural sound came from his slightly opened lips, and a shaft of sunlight peeking through the curtains lighted up beads of perspiration on his forehead. She stood up and felt his neck. Still warm. Quietly, she tiptoed out.
Doug lay in bed, his eyes half-closed. “Where were you?”
“In Jonah’s room. He’s sick.”
Doug’s eyes shot open and he raised himself up. “What’s wrong?”
“Probably just a cold. He has a fever, though.”
“Have you spoken to Dr. Dolman?”
Harvey Dolman, a doctor at Montefiore Hospital, treated Jonah for matters large and small. Dani thought him a godsend, a physician who not only understood Williams syndrome and its far-reaching tentacles but also treated his charges and their families with an inexhaustible supply of patience. The Bronx hospital had opened its Williams syndrome center just a few years ago, and it had simplified their lives immeasurably.
“It’s too early to call. I’ll wait until nine.”
“His service can reach him any time,” Doug said as he reached for the phone on the side of the bed.
Dani put her hand over Doug’s. “He’ll be okay. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. We shouldn’t disturb Dr. Dolman now.”
Doug stared at her a moment. “All right then, if you’re sure.” He lay back down. “You know he’ll want you to stay home with him.”
She did know. They were supposed to take turns, but Dani couldn’t resist Jonah’s pleading for her to stay.
At nine o’clock she called Dr. Dolman and received the reassurance she’d hoped for. Jonah had a cold, an ordinary cold like every child gets from time to time. He felt better after sleeping for a few more hours and awakening to discover he would spend the day at home with his mother. His smile returned, along with his gushing chatter. Dani enjoyed spending time with Jonah. In fact, most adults enjoyed his friendly and cheerful personality. If she hadn’t felt pressed by the Calhoun case, she’d have relished a day at home with her son. Instead, she picked up the phone and called her office.